"A [preacher] who does not love art, poetry, music and nature can be dangerous. Blindness and deafness toward the beautiful are not incidental; they are necessarily reflected in his [preaching]." — BXVI

16 November 2014

No harvest, no feast

33rd
Sunday OTFr. Philip Neri Powell, OPOur Lady of the Rosary,
NOLA

Never
having been pregnant myself, it’s difficult for me to imagine how a
pregnant woman might be surprised by her labor pains. Surely after
nine months of bloating, vomiting, hormonal surges, that maternal
glow, and the all-too-popular weight gain, she is more or less ready
for the inevitable cramping and inevitable pangs of birth. Oh sure,
the exact moment—day, hour, minute—might be a surprise. Who would
put real money on that bet?! But that she will experience the pain of
pushing out a wet, screaming human watermelon really can’t come as
much of a last minute shocker. All the more unusual then is Paul’s
metaphor for the surprise that Christians will experience when the
Lord returns. He writes to the Thessalonians: “For you yourselves
know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief at
night. When people are saying, ‘Peace and security,’ then sudden
disaster comes upon them, like labor pains upon a pregnant woman, and
they will not escape…” So, in what way will our surprise at the
return of the Lord be like the suddenness of “labor pains upon a
pregnant woman”? Though the pain of childbirth is dreaded, the
reward of a child is anticipated with great joy. Our surprise at the
return of the Lord will be both dread and joy, trepidation and
elation: the long anticipated relief of our tensed waiting.

Paul
tells us that our Lord will return like a thief in the night. He also
tells us that our surprise will come like labor pains—hard,
clenching, sweaty, but not entirely unexpected. It makes sense to say
then that though the thief comes in the night, we have been expecting
his arrival for some time, waiting for him to pop the lock on the
backdoor, to lift the latch of the window and sneak in. We don’t
know the day, the hour, the minute of his break-in, but we know that
he will arrive, and we know that what he has come to steal has been
his all along. At baptism we make ourselves the Lord’s debtors,
owing all we are and all we have to him, everything held in trust
until he returns to claim the principal with accrued interest. What
have you done with the Lord’s largess? With all the Lord has given
you? What have you done with the person the Lord made you to be?

Jesus,
ever the lover of a good parable, says to his disciples: “A man
going on a journey called in his servants and entrusted his
possessions to them. To one he gave five talents; to another, two; to
a third, one—to each according to his ability. Then he went away.”
The man gives talents to his servants according to their ability.
Makes sense. Except that we have to ask: according to their ability
to do what? This is the crux of the parable. Knowing his servants
well, the man does not distribute his possessions uniformly, giving
each servant the same number of talents. Rather, precisely because he
knows the varying abilities of his servants, he distributes them
equally; that is, he gives each the number of talents equal to the
ability of each servant. The man is not foolish. He is not going to
give those with little ability the chance to squander his talents on
a grand scale. However, by giving them talents equal to their
abilities, he is giving them the opportunity to show that they are
worthy of more—an opportunity that they would not otherwise have.

Now,
here’s the interesting part of the parable: by giving the servants
talents equal to their abilities, the man is actually adding to their
abilities. Presumably, without the responsibility of keeping the
talents none of the servants would have the chance to move much
beyond their given abilities. So, on top of their natural talents,
the man adds some investment capital. He “invests” in each
servant an excess of talents to supplement what they have received
naturally. In theological terms, we can say that the man has used his
grace to build on their natures, gifting them the chance and the
tools necessary to grow well beyond their natural capacities.

What
happens? The man returns and the servants line up for inspection. Who
has taken advantage of their gift of talents? Jesus continues the
parable: “The one who had received five talents came forward
bringing the additional five. He said, 'Master, you gave me five
talents. See, I have made five more.' His master said to him, 'Well
done, my good and faithful servant.’” This servant, having
received talents equal to his abilities, took his master’s
principal investment and used it to double his worth. Any of the
servants could have done the same. Not all of them did. Why not? Out
of fear that his master would simply take any interest he might
accrue on the investment, one servant simply buried his talent. Out
of fear that his work to improve his master’s gift would benefit
his master alone, this servant refused to make good on his chance. He
planted a dead seed, and not surprisingly, nothing grew. No growth,
no harvest. No harvest, no feast. The fearful servant loses his
talent to the more gifted servant and the master calls him wicked and
lazy!

When
our master returns – in the night like a thief long expected –
will you present him with his principal investment alone, or will you
return to him his initial gift plus interest? According to your
ability you have been gifted with exactly those talents that you need
to grow in holiness. You have been given everything you need to
invest wisely and move beyond your natural abilities. But what is
most important to remember is this: every step beyond your abilities,
every level of increasing perfection that you reach is the result of
our Lord’s initial investment in you—his gift of talents that
equals your abilities. Upon his return he expects to receive a return
on his investment. What will you present to him? Who will you present
to him? Will you, like the “good and faithful servant,” show him
double the talent? Or will you have to go dig up his gift and return
it unused? How will you excuse yourself? To say that you had no idea
when the master would return is true on its face. You cannot,
however, claim that you did not know that he was returning.
Like the pregnant woman who knows the pain of childbirth is coming
though not precisely when, you know the time of judgment is before
us. Called to account for yourself, what will you say, “Sorry. But
I knew you were just going to take it all back, so I did nothing”?
Wicked and lazy, indeed!

Paul
writes, “…brothers and sisters, [you] are not in darkness, for
that day [of the Lord’s return] to overtake you like a thief. For
all of you are children of the light and children of the day. We are
not of the night or of darkness. Therefore, let us not sleep as the
rest do, but let us stay alert and sober.” Because we see clearly
in the light of the Lord, we must take the gifts we are given, invest
to the limits of our abilities, tend the growing fruits, and harvest
the abundant graces that mature. Though we do not know the day and
time of the Lord’s return, as his good and faithful servants, we
must be ready always to account not only for our abilities but for
wisely investing his gifts as well. The pain of childbirth is nothing
compared to the pain of failing in this sacred duty.

2 comments:

I was not taken by this homily. I heard the same basic message today at my parish, but in under 5 minutes. It seemed that you talked around quite a bit, and for me that detracted from your point (which was a good point). I got tired of reading it, and kept hoping a good paragraph would jump up and say "here I am!" But, alas, no paragraph jumped up. I thought it could have been tightened up quite a bit.

I got tied up with visiting friars yesterday morning and just didn't have time to write. I ended up "borrowing" this one from 2008 -- a Rome homily never really meant to be preached. I knew within two paragraphs that this one was not really a homily. :-(